


Infuriating

by afractionof



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Car Salesman!Jake, Jake/Bro|Dirk, M/M, non-sburb AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-06-28
Packaged: 2017-12-16 11:04:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/861351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afractionof/pseuds/afractionof
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jake English is going to be the death of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Infuriating

**Author's Note:**

> Absolutely shameless reference in here to another fandom I love. If you can point it out, I'll write you a fic of your choosing because it's kind of obscure and I'm curious if anyone else will appreciate my idiocy.

Lately, complete and utter confusion has become a staple in your life; one you would like to remove but have no hopes of ever actually digging out because the imbecile causing all the confusion might as well be a disease.

Actually, you're not completely sure that isn't exactly what he is for the simple fact that Jake English is, by far, the most infuriating fuck on the face of the planet.

He's loud and obnoxious and has the most shit taste in movies you have ever had the displeasure of experiencing. And what the hell is his deal with the way he talks anyway. Who the fuck says 'chum' and 'old pal' and 'golly'?

Ugh, he's like listening to an old man on some black and white sitcom you'd rather taze yourself than listen to and, yeah, he might be quite a bit older than you but he is in no way a total geezer.

No, he's definitely not that old.

Because no one that old is allowed to have the muscle tone that he does or the tanned skin and smile that you can't take your eyes off of. They're not allowed to have that much energy either and even though you're pretty sure he does half of the shit he does to piss you off, you actually kind of like the way he's always so excited and going off about adventures. What there is to 'adventure' in the middle of Houston is still up for debate but his face gets all flushed and his smile looks more like it's about to rip his face open and his hands get all wild and you like it. You even like the way he does that ridiculous winking thing when he thinks he's being charming and his teeth drag over his bottom lip and-- fuck. It _is_ charming.

It's charming and you fucking like it. A whole hell of a lot more than you want to or should.

And that. _That_ has got to be the worst part about him.

You're not supposed to like him. You're not supposed to want to go to work and you're definitely not supposed to look at those tight shorts he's prone to wearing when he walks away because he's your boss.

He's also your brother's boyfriend but that's not something you're prepared to think about.

Again.

"Come now, Strider, what's got you in such a slump of a mood?"

The hand that hits you sends you wobbling to the side and you scowl at him as you raise a hand to brush your shirt and right any wrinkles in it. "Maybe it's got something to do with being slapped around by my dickwad boss who thinks it's funny to prey on poor, unsuspecting individuals that would like a moment to listen to themselves think."

He just laughs. "I say, I'll never tire of listening to your errant sarcasm. It's a refreshing change of pace form the usual boring chit-chit that comes through the place."

Oh, God, you just want to strangle him.

He's so exuberant and you know for a fact he's not dumb enough to think you didn't actually mean every word of what you just said.

It's just another thing in the long line of evidence you've complied stating that he fucking does it on purpose. 

You just shake your head and lean back against the counter.

Ten minutes and you're free.

For a little while, at least.

You know he'll be in your apartment within the hour once you leave, making dinner and waiting for Bro to come home. You'll get your dinner because you learned after the first week of him being there that it was just stupid to snub a good meal and you do mean a good meal. English is a fantastic cook, something you can't really figure out since he's always all over the place in the kitchen, humming his old-timey show tunes and quoting Star Wars at bread dough.

You'll never understand him.

Which, you remind yourself, is a good thing because you don't need to.

You don't need to know why he has such a thing for blue painted women in the movies or why he's always got his hands in Bro's hair. You don't need to know why he wears the shorts he does or if he even realizes how much it shows off the, very clearly, perfect ass hidden underneath the khaki material.

You don't need to know any of that shit.

It doesn't stop you from wanting to though and, that too, drives you nuts.

You know he's still talking but you ignore him and duck down to get your stuff. Five minutes isn't going to kill anyone and you know for a fact he won't write you up. Hell, you doubt he'll even notice you're gone with the way he's gesturing like that, all caught up in his own make-believe, Indian Jones wannabe fantasy. Not that you care. It's just as well, after all, that he doesn't notice and you can abscond without having to deal with his drawn out good-byes.

'Farewell, chap-- a _jolly_ farewell, to you, David Strider', you mouth, shaking your head. ‘David’ isn’t even your name.

He's just that ridiculous.

And apparently going to put some of that brain you know he has to good use now, of all times.

Not that you really expected anything less. You do succumb to wishful thinking once in a while.  

He spends enough time around Bro that you're surprised he hasn't started carting smuppets around and attacking random people.

Well, you suppose he does attack random people but, as a car salesman, you figure that's acceptable.

Sort of.

Not really but it's entertaining to watch the different reactions people have when he waltzes up and butters them up on his home grown attitude and shit eating grin.

He's good at his job.

But you're not really concerned with that right now because his hands have landed on your shoulders and he's leaning down, mouth right next to your ear. You can feel the warmth of his breath on your skin and it makes your fingers curl, your nails biting into the palms of your hands, and you're not sure whether it's from frustration or want.

Probably both.

"Don't think you can sneak away so easily, pal. What do you take me for? A complete fool? You still have two minutes on the clock!"

You shake him off and turn, giving him a flat look over the top of your shades.

He doesn't make you take them off while you work, the only platonic plus you've been able to come up with for him. "Yeah? So?"

"So? Skiving off work is hardly honorable behavior, I'll have you know."

"Right and if I gave a fuck that might actually mean something." His lips twitch and you roll your eyes. "I'm not hanging around so you can get off on an argument, sorry. I'm a busy man, after all, got shit to do, irons to throw in some metaphorical fires, hot dates to satisfy and that doesn't include you, English." 

When he crosses his arms and leans against the counter, your shoulders tense. You're not stupid. You could have sensed the subtle change in his demeanor from ten miles off. Jesus, you could probably have felt the way his hip dipped to the side and his eyebrow arched all the way back at your apartment.

You don't see him like this often and, usually, when you do it's as you're hurrying out of the living room to avoid the confrontation between him and Bro.  It’s exciting in a way that you don’t want to dig too deeply into and you bite your tongue to keep your lips firmly sealed shut.

Shit.

Sometimes you forget that he's not really that floundering idiot he makes himself out to be. You forget that in his desk is a set of handguns that he's got pretty good aim with. You forget that this guy holds his own against Bro in a strife and hardly breaks a sweat when he tags along with you when you get it into your head to do some running in the cooler months.

You forget and it scares the shit out of you because he's so good at making you forget.

"Strider? Is there something wrong? You look like you've had quiet the shock."

He's amused. You can hear it in his tone and see it in his eyes and it makes you want to throw the ugly purple apple of a paperweight he's got sitting on his desk right at his head.

You don't though and swallow thickly before turning as nonchalantly as possible. You shrug and open your mouth to respond but you're cut off when he grabs your arm and spins you around.

Your eyes dart around the room instinctively but you already know no one is around. It's just you and him and he's giving you this smile that says he knows exactly what you're thinking.

You want him and you hate him for it. You yourself for it because this is your brother’s boyfriend, the guy actually picks up his shit for and you _want_ him—both of them—in the most perverse way possible.

But most of all you hate the way he smiles at you and just how easy it is to see that he fucking knows exactly what you want.

He holds you there for a moment, his hand pressed to the small of your back and for a second you think he might kiss you. Your breath is caught in your throat and you’re torn between shouting at him to back the fuck up and yanking him forward by his tie. You wonder if it’s obvious how conflicted you are because he doesn't, just letting out a soft laugh instead and you remember try to take a steady breath when he pats your head.

You abscond the fuck right out of there the second he lets go.

You know he's playing with you, pulling at your strings like you’re some kind of dolled up marionette. You know he's spent way too much time with Bro, putting up with is mind games shit and the underhanded implications to not be pretty good at it himself. You know that. All of it. And, yet, you still let him. You want him too because you want that attention and, Jesus, you’re so fucked up.

You don’t really care though. It’s too late for that.

Shaking your head at yourself, you get into your car and glance at the rear view mirror, muttering under your breath when you catch sight of him. He’s smiling, waving at you from the front of the building like he always does and you roll your eyes before starting the car up and pulling out of the lot.

He'll be around later and you know he'll pretend like nothing happened. You'll do the same but, for now, you can't help the little smile tilting your lips or the way your fingers hit against the steering wheel in a steady beat as you drive.

Jake English is infuriating. He’s obnoxious and dumb, has you completely wrapped around his long, tan fingers and you’re in no way delusional when you say he’s going to be the death of you.

 

 


End file.
